


Destiny is Funny Like That, I Suppose

by Animal_Arithmetic



Series: Upon These Golden Sands I Built My House of Dreams [1]
Category: Supernatural, The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Geralt, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Bisexual Male Character, Geralt loves Jaskier like a lot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Still a Witcher, M/M, Minor Character Death, Musician Jaskier, Reincarnation, Tired Geralt, You'll see what I mean, child of surprise, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Animal_Arithmetic/pseuds/Animal_Arithmetic
Summary: Geralt really should have learned from the last time he claimed the Law of Surprise and Destiny gave him a special child.OR: Destiny rears its ugly head, history repeats itself, and Geralt (maybe) learns his lesson.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Upon These Golden Sands I Built My House of Dreams [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614880
Comments: 34
Kudos: 905





	Destiny is Funny Like That, I Suppose

**Author's Note:**

> ya so I've only seen season one of The Witcher and it's been a super long time since I've seen Supernatural so you get what you get
> 
> might make snippets later idk
> 
> not proofread bc i'm tired

Sometimes, Geralt wondered why Destiny kept him alive all these years. As far as he knew, he was the last Witcher alive after the Crusades. He was the only one who remembered anything from before then, anyway. Not even the history books had made it, and any that had had been rewritten for the victor’s favor and swiftly destroyed, along with whole villages and their names. Anyone who could use magic had hidden long ago and were few and far between.

Centuries had come and gone since then. Geralt had somehow managed to evade death, outlived his expected expiration date time and time again. Witchers had an expanded lifespan, yes, but this was just getting ridiculous. It had been so long that he’d lost track.

He didn’t care to find out, either.

Now, though, he sat in a library researching his next target. Books and newspapers covered the table and he scribbled his notes in a book he kept specifically to figure out what the monster of the week was. People didn’t come right out and ask for a Witcher to take care of their monsters anymore. No, he had to hear it from other sources, through gossip and newspapers claiming strange phenomenon, read the local legends and stories for his answers.

He didn’t get paid for it anymore, either.

_Fucking Catholics._

It was fine. It was _fine_. He could get money elsewise, through doing small jobs here and there for money under the table. He never spoke, never raised a fuss, and could do manual labor others simply couldn’t keep up with.

The newest hunter he was training—Rodney, perhaps? They all sort of blended together after a while—finally joined him. His task before he was allowed to help with hunts had been to copy the notebook Geralt had started to first catalogue all the changes the monsters had gone through throughout the centuries, but then it was useful for training the new hunters. Even though he knew all the information intimately—had to, with his memory and training—he kept it specifically for the new hunters.

Even though there weren’t any Witchers, anymore, it didn’t mean he couldn’t train humans to help him in his fight. The world was vast, and he was only one man, after all.

“Thanks,” said possibly-Rodney. “So what are we looking at?” he asked, picking up a newspaper that had red pencil markings all over the front page.

“It’s most likely a ghoul,” Geralt grumbled. Even from being in the United States of America for almost two centuries, he still hadn’t quite lost his accent.

Rodney peered over at his scribbling. He was a young man, just barely into adulthood. Geralt had saved him from a werewolf attack just a few weeks ago and he had begged to come along ever since. Geralt had obliged, remembering fondly to a time when an idiot bard had tagged along on his adventures. Jaskier had been dead for centuries, but he had helped Geralt learn that he didn’t actually like traveling by himself, and that he actually _couldn’t_ anymore. People helped keep the darkness in his mind at bay, and it helped that he knew he was helping the world a little bit at a time, teaching one hunter after another to help with the cause.

“We’ll go tonight,” Geralt said, gathering the books. “Should be simple enough.”

The speakers overhead crackled. “Could a ‘Geralt Rivia’ please come to the front desk?” a feminine voice spoke out.

Geralt and Rodney exchanged looks. “You clean up here,” Geralt ordered. “Make sure all my notes come with us. Books to the end of the table, notes in my bag.” He set his threadbare backpack onto the table. It was only used to carry around his research and notebooks, but he would need to get another one soon. He could only patch it so many times before it fell completely apart.

“Yes, sir.”

Geralt tried not to finger the blade hidden under his black leather jacket. He didn’t want to be too suspicious, after all, but no one here should have known his name. Not enough to call him to the front desk, anyway.

“Geralt?” the woman at the desk asked.

He grunted, taking in every detail. No one else was nearby, oddly enough.

“There’s a Missouri Mosely on the phone for you? She figured you’d still be here, she said.”

Missouri Mosely. He hadn’t heard that name in a long time. “Thank you,” he grunted, taking the phone from her. The curled cord only stretched far enough that he didn’t quite have to lean over the counter. “Hello, Missouri.”

“Hello, Geralt,” she replied in her calm, almost breathy tone. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

“Just researching,” he replied in turn, noticing how the librarian was only pretending not to be interested in his conversation as she flipped through a pile of papers listlessly.

“I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

“It’s easy enough, I suppose. I should get it done tonight.”

“Well you’ll have to hurry it up,” Missouri said, sounding urgent. “It’s time to claim your Children of Surprise.”

“F—” He only just managed to keep from swearing. People these days were too soft and got too easily offended when he cursed. “Already?”

The earpiece crackled as she huffed. “Yes, already! Mary’s dead. John just arrived with the kids.”

“Ah, fuck.”

The librarian glared at him. He glared right back. “So sorry,” he snapped, lifting one corner of his mouth in a parody of a snarl. “Just learned that my friend died.”

She looked horrified at the information. Geralt ignored her and turned back to the phone. “Alright. I suppose I’ll be there in two days.”

“You better.”

She hung up before he could say anything else.

Geralt closed his eyes and breathed deep. Shit. Shit _fucking_ fuck. Fucking Destiny, fucking—

“Would you mind if I made a phone call?”

“G-Go ahead.” She pushed the rest of the phone closer to him so he could hang up and dial home.

One, two, three, four rings, then—

“Julian Pankratz, at your service!”

“Pack up, Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled into the phone, eyeing the nosy librarian who was shamelessly listening in. “We’ve a long trip ahead of us.”

Jaskier made a loud, surprised noise on the other end of the line. “Well it’s about time!” he called out. “Really, the _nerve_ of that demon—”

“Mary’s dead, Jaskier.”

Silence. But only for a moment, because then Jaskier was babbling out apologies for his lack of sensitivity. “Right, right. I’ll be all packed up by the time you get back. Though I suppose you’ll finish the job, first? Wouldn’t want to leave a nasty beastie around.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” was all he said before he hung up.

The librarian stared at him, eyes wide with shock and concern. Geralt closed his eyes, tipping his head back to point to the ceiling before he breathed in deeply so he could take a moment to think. He could take care of the ghoul no problem. But he couldn’t take care of Rodney _and_ Jaskier _and_ John _and_ the Children of Surprise. Maybe he could drop Rodney off at Bobby’s, or even leave him with Pastor Jim, even though both were a little out of the way. Rufus Turner would be a last resort, but he wouldn’t ever subject a kid to that dour man if he could help it.

Why? _Why_ had he been so stupid? Why couldn’t he have asked John and Mary for money, or their car, or something? Why? Why had he invoked the Law of Surprise? Had he learned _nothing_ from his mistake with Pavetta and that hedgehog-cursed night? Obviously not.

Obviously, it was because he was a fucking dumbass, that’s why. At least, Jaskier would remind him of that fact if Geralt ever bothered to voice his complaints. Had already called him that at the time and would sometimes shake his head when he looked at Geralt with a small, privately little smile.

Geralt huffed and stalked back to the table where Rodney was waiting for him patiently. “Let’s go,” he muttered, slinging the bag over his shoulder. Rodney scurried to catch up with him as he stalked out of the library.

They had a long night ahead of them.

* * *

Listen. He can explain.

* * *

As always, it was Jaskier’s fault.

Well, that wasn’t quite fair. And Geralt had promised he would stop blaming the musician and had profusely apologized and had recognized he was wrong.

Geralt had been alone for far too long by that point. Decades and centuries and eons had passed since Jaskier had died and Geralt hadn’t the heart to find another companion. No one could have compared to Jaskier, anyway. No one could have annoyed him like the bard could, no one could understand him or be his friend in the way the bard could.

It took a few centuries, thinking back fondly on those memories, that Geralt had realized he had been a little bit in love with Jaskier the entire time.

Don’t look at him like that. Witchers were rumored to not have feelings. His were certainly dulled enough that it was hard to recognize them, hard to let himself get lost in them. He could drown in irritation, be moved by anger, but the softer emotions had always been just out of reach.

Until Jaskier, that was.

But, no. That was beside the point.

The _point_ was that Destiny had a funny way of coming about.

It was 1970. He was wandering around the US, looking for monsters to kill and new hunters to train. His Dodge Charger needed gas and possibly an oil change. Switching over from a horse to a car had been one of the hardest things he had ever had to do, but he’d had to to survive. It was just “too weird” to ride a horse anymore unless he was Amish, and even then he couldn’t exactly go to the towns where the monsters thrived.

So, thus, the car.

Geralt was exhausted. The hunt had been successful and it wasn’t even midnight yet. However, it was a little bit more frowned upon to show up to a tavern—bar, what have you—covered in blood and gore, so he had stopped at his dinky little motel room to wash off. He had been about to just fall into bed, but he needed food and a drink—and not necessarily in that order.

Thus, he had crossed the street to a small restaurant that also, thankfully, had a bar. He situated himself at the bar and ordered his whiskey and a burger. It was rather dim inside, just light enough to see but not quite enough to make out strangers’ faces. Live music came from the back corner where there was a small stage, overcrowded with equipment going unused with just a lone singer on stage with a guitar. Something about it was familiar to him, but—well, when one lived as long as Geralt had, lots of things seemed familiar.

“ _But the story is this,/ She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss_ ,” suddenly burst out from the speakers.

Geralt turned, nearly spilling his drink and nearly sending his plate off the bar at the sudden movement. He stood, widening his eyes to try to get a better look at the singer. He _knew_ those lyrics. He _knew_ them because Jaskier had confessed the song had been about him and Jaskier and Yennefer.

But it had been _centuries_. _No one_ should have known that song.

He pushed his way towards the stage, ignoring the protests of the people he disturbed. He needed to see, needed—

Before he could reach the stage, brilliant blue eyes looked up from the guitar and caught his gaze. The words died in his throat, a wrong note twang from his guitar. The crowd started to murmur, concerned, and Geralt was frozen to the spot, pinned down by beautiful blue eyes he hadn’t seen in eternities.

And then those cornflower blue eyes rolled back and Jaskier fell off his stool to horrified gasps and a few screams. Geralt, desperate now, pushed forward and jumped onto the stage before anyone else could move to help him. He couldn’t move the guitar away since the strap was around Jaskier, but he moved it as much out of his way as he could as he tried to rouse him. Gentle taps to the face weren’t doing anything, but his body was trembling. A seizure? No, perhaps not. The tremors weren’t jerky enough. Not yet, anyway.

Someone in a button up and slacks kneeled on Jaskier’s other side. “Julian?” the man demanded, tapping at his face a little harder than Geralt had. Geralt wanted to rip his arm off at the rough treatment. “Come on, man. Wake up.”

He went to dump some water on his face, but Geralt was quicker and his grip was tight as he growled out, “Don’t even think about it.”

“No offense, but who the fuck are _you_?”

“A friend,” Geralt replied immediately. “We don’t want water to get into his lungs.” He took the bottle from the stunned man and tipped the bottle just enough to get his fingers wet. Geralt flicked his fingers towards Jaskier’s forehead, hoping the shock of the cool water would wake him.

Jaskier’s eyes opened with a sharp gasp. “Geralt,” he wheezed, arm flailing until he found a muscled arm covered with scars. It pulled at a memory of a tent and an elf and a tumor...

“ _Jaskier_.” _Fuck_. How the _fuck_ was this possible? But he couldn’t help the warm, relieved smile as Jaskier’s cloudy gaze finally focused on him. “Are you okay?”

“Massive migraine,” he replied, using his free hand to press against his temple. “Fuck. What happened?”

“You froze and then fell unconscious,” the man replied, getting Jaskier’s attention. “I can call an ambulance.”

“No, no,” Jaskier protested, “I’m fine. Must be... dehydrated or something.”

“Can you sit up?”

Jaskier tried valiantly, but laid back down with a groan. “My head is still spinning. Jeff, could you possibly get me a cool rag?”

Jeff ran off, leaving the two alone. Waitresses were herding people away from the stage to give them some breathing room. With as little jostling as possible, Geralt managed to get the guitar off him and set it gently to the side. It was no precious lute, but it seemed like Jaskier loved it all the same.

“I don’t understand,” Geralt admitted softly, folding his jacket so Jaskier could use it as a pillow.

Jaskier accepted it with a smile and a shrug and replied, “Reincarnation, perhaps?”

“Hmm.” Geralt wanted so badly to run the back of his fingers across Jaskier’s tanned cheeks but refrained, unsure how welcoming the establishment was. “I missed you, Jask.”

Jaskier’s smile brightened, and Geralt wouldn’t have it any other way.

Eventually, Jeff came back with the rag and after a few minutes of leaving it on his head, Jaskier was good to stand. He couldn’t play, anymore, so Jeff, who Geralt assumed was the owner or manager, ushered them towards the quietest corner and brought Geralt’s plate and whiskey with another glass of water and some fries for Jaskier. Geralt had declined them reheating his food or getting him a new plate, instead just asking for a refill on his whiskey.

They ate quietly, Jaskier’s migraine hurting him too much to think straight, let alone speak. Jeff had brought Jaskier his guitar in its case after dropping off their food, letting Jaskier know he had his money when he was ready. A quiet Jaskier was a strange Jaskier, but Geralt didn’t know how to start the conversation anyway. Not with so many ears present, anyway.

“I still need to find a hotel room, but once I find a place, if you want you could come to mine?” Jaskier asked shyly, which was also unusual for the bard—musician—whatever.

“I’m right across the street.”

Jaskier made a face at the slightly rundown motel, but nodded. He let Geralt take his guitar and he took the arm held out for him, leaning into Geralt as they crossed the quiet street. Geralt kept the lights off, letting the streetlight from outside bath the room in a soft light to help with Jaskier’s migraine.

“I have aspirin?”

“Thanks.” After taking the pills, Jaskier fell face first onto the bed, turning his head to look at Geralt who sat at his hip. “So.”

“I always wondered why I was still alive,” Geralt admitted softly, finally caving in to temptation and running the back of his fingers over Jaskier’s soft cheek. “Perhaps it was so I could meet you again.”

Jaskier preened under the attention. “Perhaps,” he murmured, eyes slowly drifting shut as Geralt continued to caress his cheek. “Destiny is funny like that, I suppose.”

Geralt couldn’t hold it in anymore. He’d kept it a secret for over half his life, and Jaskier _needed_ to know. “I love you, Jaskier. I think I always did,” he grunted, looking away but he kept caressing Jaskier’s soft cheek.

He’d always known, perhaps, that Jaskier had always been in love with him. Jaskier had flirted with him often enough, anyway, and had offered sex from time to time. Hell, their very first meeting Jaskier had flirted _hard_ with him—and what kind of pickup line was “You wouldn’t keep a man with bread in his pants waiting?” anyway? But... really, the bard deserved to know.

Jaskier still had that soft, gentle, loving smile as he sat up. Geralt’s hand fell away, but Jaskier claimed it and pressed it against his cheek again, calloused palm pressing against his jaw. “Well, what are you waiting for?” Jaskier asked with a teasing lilt to his smile. “Kiss me, you fool.”

And who was Geralt to deny him?

* * *

They traveled together after that. Jaskier stayed at his side, directing him towards singing gigs so they could have some sort of income. Geralt would hunt in the area, getting rid of any monsters that were in need of slaying there before they could become much more of a problem. It worked, for the most part, except when Jaskier got cranky from not being able to join. Geralt pointed out that it would be a little suspicious if he turned up to his gigs harmed in any way.

Jaskier huffed and complained, but complied for the most part. He demanded to help with research and help patch him up afterwards, which Geralt didn’t mind nearly so much as he would have before. He even let Jaskier shower with him so he could wash his back and hair, which Geralt refused to let him know he loved so much.

He even let Jaskier rub chamomile on his “lovely bottom” and, well, if that led to noisy sex, then only the neighbors needed to know.

When he picked up a hunter, Geralt glared and growled and snarled at any hint of the hunter showing prejudice to them being together. Only a few had run off after trying to stab Jaskier for it and Geralt had stopped him with a gun pointed at his head, but Jaskier sprung back every time like it was no big deal.

“I’ve got you, don’t I?” Jaskier replied with Geralt asked why he wasn’t bothered.

Well, then.

Geralt wouldn’t mention the warm feeling in his chest. It was probably just heartburn anyway.

* * *

They stopped in front of the house where he had last known the Campbells to live. Something in the last few weeks had told him that he needed to come here, needed to check up on them. He had come to the USA with the Campbells, back on the Mayflower. They had come from Scotland, having hunted monsters there but abandoned everything there and had gotten a ride on the Mayflower to protect the innocent people coming over who had no idea about monsters. By then, all the Witchers except for Geralt—as far as he knew—were long gone, and he figured it was his job to teach them the best he could.

So, he followed Nathaniel Campbell and his family to the USA and started hunting there.

From time to time he would stop by, at least once every few years so he could keep in touch with the family. They were kind to him, at least, and always offered him a bed or couch when he stopped by, even if there was nothing in the area. The entire family was full of hunters, so he only needed to stop by because he was feeling nostalgic.

But this time, he brought Jaskier.

“Mary,” he greeted the young woman as she opened the door. She was older than he had expected. Maybe it had been a bit too long between visits.

“Geralt!” With a laugh she flung herself at him, letting him spin her around as they clutched tightly to each other. “It’s been so long!”

“My apologies.” Geralt set her back down and smiled down at her. She had always been such a sweet child, always so determined to learn when he had come by years before. “Time passes a little differently for me.”

“Sure, sure,” she dismissed, grabbing his hand to pull him into the house. “Mom and dad would love to see you! And there’s another hunter here, too.”

They stopped in the dining room where the others were eating. Samuel and Deanna got up to greet him, but the stranger sat frozen in his chair. There was something... _familiar_ about him. Something that tugged at him, just behind his navel. Like he should recognize the face staring back at him. And he smelled a lot like the Campbells, too. Just slightly different, however. A cousin, perhaps?

He looked a lot like Mary, though.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked softly, tentatively touching his arm. “What’s the matter?”

Ciri. That’s what the boy reminded him of, what the tug in his stomach felt like. But...

“Ciri?” he asked quietly, stepping towards the young man. But he wasn’t fainting or trembling like Jaskier had been.

The man quirked his head, lips tilting into a smirk as he stood. His eyes flicked briefly to Jaskier. “Sorry, no. My name’s Dean.”

“Ah, sorry.” Geralt shook his head to clear it. “Must have driven for too long. Geralt.” He gripped Dean’s hand perhaps a little too tight, but to Dean’s credit he didn’t even flinch. “And this is Jaskier. He’s not a hunter, but he knows the life.”

“Hi!” Jaskier chirped, clutching Dean’s hand next. He shook hands with everyone, chattering the entire time. “Geralt told me a lot about you! Except you, Dean, of course. New friends and all that, yeah?—”

Geralt tuned him out. “Who taught you?” Geralt wondered aloud to Dean.

Dean startled. “Oh—uh—my dad, did,” he stuttered, eyes cutting away for a moment.

There was something he wasn’t wanting to reveal. Geralt didn’t like that—wanted to know why this man was so familiar, but he wouldn’t press. Instead, he gratefully accepted the whiskey Samuel pressed into his hands and joined them for dinner.

There was a strange death, Samuel told him. For the most part, Geralt let him deal with it on his own. He would only step in if Samuel needed it—he was a proud man, and Geralt needed a break after the werewolf he had taken care of last week. If Samuel wanted help, he knew he could ask Geralt. Especially when it became clear that it was some sort of demon.

Geralt hated dealing with demons. He’d let the younger ones take care of it.

Well. Until the thrice damned demon took hold of Samuel. He had been in the other room, dozing on the couch with Jaskier when he heard the commotion. He had arrived just in time to stop Samuel from snapping Deanna’s neck, fighting with the demon with yellow eyes to try to keep him from harming anyone else. The thick iron taste of blood clung to the air from the stab wound in Samuel’s stomach. Unfortunately, the demon nearly snapped Geralt’s neck in the struggle and he was stunned long enough for the demon to escape. Once he recovered enough, he grabbed Dean and Jaskier to follow after. There was a tug in his chest—something like when he found Jaskier again, when he saw Dean—and he followed it until they came across the demon pulling Mary out of the car.

The car skidded across the gravel as Geralt stopped to jump out. He grappled with the demon, wrestling it away from Mary and throwing it across his car. A shot ran out, missing the demon by inches.

It gave Geralt enough of a distraction that he threw his knife, landing squarely in the demon’s heart. Samuel’s body lit up, lightening crackling under his skin before slumping over with a thump.

“Ah, fuck.” Geralt stumbled as he tried to make it to his friend. Jaskier was already there, searching for a pulse, but shook his head as Geralt landed on his knees beside him. Geralt punched the ground once, hissing as rocks cracked his knuckles. “Mary,” he croaked, watching her fall to her father’s other side. “Mary, I’m so sorry.”

Mary was choking back her tears, hands trembling as she checked for a pulse, for any sign of life. “He—He wouldn’t have wanted to be saved if that meant the demon got away,” she choked out. “You know that.”

“I tried—”

Jaskier’s hand rested on his forearm, stopping him. “I know I’ve told you this before.” Jaskier’s voice was soft, thumb rubbing soothing back and forth over his arm. “You can’t save everybody. Sometimes—Sometimes you can’t.”

“I know, but—”

Soft lips pressed against his, cutting him off. “No buts. I’m sorry he’s dead, too, but... He would just keep killing if you hadn’t.”

Geralt drew in a deep breath, trying to keep it from being shaky. “You’re right.”

“What—” a shaky voice called out from the other side of the car. “What happened?”

Mary’s mouth twitched. “He doesn’t know,” she muttered quickly. “He doesn’t know about the life.”

Geralt nodded once. He turned towards the other man—John, probably. Mary had talked about meeting with him earlier that evening. “Psychotic break,” he answered unwaveringly. “Some kid probably slipped him something while he was out earlier.”

 _Thank you_ , Mary mouthed, bowing her head and sobbing into her father’s chest.

Geralt tried to ignore the empty feeling in his chest. “Dean—” He turned to see if Dean could find a phone to call the police, but the man was nowhere to be found. There was the slight taste of ozone in the air, concentrated near the trunk of his car.

A mystery for another time.

“Jaskier,” he implored, clutching at his hand. “Please phone the police. Take my car. We’ll wait here.”

Jaskier pressed a kiss to his cheek and promised to be right back.

“You saved us,” said John.

Something pulled in his chest. “It was nothing.”

“We owe you.” John stepped closer until he could kneel at Mary’s side, arm wrapped protectively around her.

“You owe me nothing. I took a man’s life.”

“Who knows what he would have done to Mary—to us,” John argued back.

“Geralt—” warned Jaskier, but Geralt shook his head.

“There’s nothing you could give me.”

“There must be something?” Mary asked, eyes watery as she looked up at him. “John’s right. Who knows what would have happened to us.”

With a frustrated sigh, Geralt stood and spread his arms with a wry grin. “Law of Surprise! I claim the Law of Surprise!” Surely no one knew what that meant—it had been centuries since he had last heard of it, and he had hoped it had died out. Surely that meant it couldn’t be invoked—

Mary promptly threw up.

“You’re a fucking dumbass,” Jaskier let him know before he slammed the door shut and drove away.

“Ah, fuck.”

* * *

Missouri Mosely was a kind woman who let them stop and rest whenever they traveled through. This time, though, instead of a kind smile she sighed and ushered them to her living room. John was there, looking much older than he should have. There was a baby and a toddler on the floor in front of him as he nursed his beer.

“Hello, John,” said Geralt when the man didn’t acknowledge him.

“Fuck off.”

“Hmm.” Geralt and Jaskier sat on the couch across from him and watched the children play. The older one—Dean, he remembered—dangled a toy to get the younger one to crawl towards him. They had visited just after Dean was born and he had called a few months ago and learned about the other child—Sammy, if he remembered correctly. Jaskier and Geralt had been planning to come up and visit soon, but...

Well.

“Sent Rodney on his way, then?” Missouri asked, bringing them both some water.

“Sent him to Bobby,” Geralt answered gruffly. “I can’t watch after all of them.”

Jaskier grumbled next to him, but didn’t really protest as he slipped down onto the floor to play with the children. He looked good, down there and interacting with the kids. Something sharp ached in his chest. It was something he had wanted so badly, even though he couldn’t produce any kids of his own. Plus his lifestyle... It wasn’t the greatest for children. Ciri notwithstanding.

“Missouri’s kept me here long enough,” John said, roughly setting his beer bottle on the table. “I need to get searching for the yellow-eyed demon.”

“You’re not a hunter,” Geralt reminded him as gently as he could. He didn’t flinch under John’s glare. “I’m sorry about Mary. She was a good friend. But you cannot just fling yourself into the life. It’s no way to raise children.”

“I need to get revenge!”

The children startled beneath them. Dean’s lower lip wobbled. Geralt grabbed John and hauled him towards the kitchen before he could disturb the children further. “You listen to me,” he growled, shoving John against the wall. “Your children need you to be there for them. Hunting will not allow you to do that.” John sneered at him, but Geralt remained impassive. “They’re mine, anyway,” he added, stepping away and letting John go.

“Ex _cuse_ me?”

“Law of Surprise,” he reminded him, going to Missouri’s cupboards and looking for her herbs. She usually kept some for him when she knew he was coming. “I’m claiming it. Your children are mine, now.”

John blustered behind him. “You can’t just _take_ my children!”

“Destiny proclaimed it,” Geralt replied, trying to sound bored as he grinded the herbs together in the mortar. He rather was, and he wasn’t about to let another Ciri incident happen again. He was _not_ about to chase two kids around the continent. He was too tired for that. “So either hand them over peacefully, or they will be forced from you. And you won’t like how Destiny chooses to do that.”

Quick steps behind him alerted him to John trying to attack him. He calmly placed the pestle aside and flung the ground up herbs in John’s face. John choked on the dust, stumbling back as he tried to spit it out.

“You want revenge?” Geralt’s voice rumbled through the kitchen. John stilled, glassy eyes staring up at Geralt from his hunched position on the other wall. He had hoped, yes, that John would give his children without fuss—but he wasn’t going to wait around for John to figure out that the children would be safest with him. “You want revenge, John? So be it. But you are leaving your children with me. You will give me anything I need to give them a good life—all their paperwork that you have for their identification—everything. You won’t try to find us unless you realize that revenge is worthless.”

“Understood,” John said much more passively than he probably had ever been. “I have new copies of everything in my car. The fire destroyed the originals.”

“Go fetch them and bring them to me,” Geralt ordered. “Once I have their things, you may leave. I’ll give you some contacts to help you.” Geralt wasn’t so heartless that he would leave a grieving man with no help.

Once John had brought in everything the children would need and had gotten Bobby and Pastor Jim’s contact information he left, driving off with barely a goodbye. Missouri cornered him in the kitchen where he was using his magic to manipulate the documents the best he could. It wasn’t difficult—ink was easy enough to manipulate when all he needed to do was change John’s name to his. He had his own documents, finally, after Jaskier had begged and pleaded that it would be useful if he ever decided to quit the Witcher life.

Sometimes Jaskier had good ideas.

“What was that?” Missouri asked, hands on her hips as she stared him down.

Geralt blinked up at her before turning his attention back to the birth certificates. Dean and Sam Rivia, born to Mary Rivia, maiden name Campbell, and Geralt Rivia. Marriage certificate changed to reflect that to make things a little easier was just as easy. “I’m not chasing after children again, Missouri. I went through it once already. I wasn’t going to go through it again.”

Missouri pursed her lips, but didn’t disagree. “You gonna clean up the mess you made?”

Geralt looked down at the herbs scattered on the floor. “Hmm.” The documents were done anyway. He took the broom and dust pan she shoved at him and listlessly cleaned it up, more focused on what he needed to do now than cleaning up his mess.

He couldn’t take the kids hunting. That was half the reason he took the kids away from John in the first place. It was no life for a child, always moving around, always on the run, always chasing something unattainable.

John’s words clanged around in his head. Yellow-eyed demon. He had killed it ten years ago, so why would John be looking for it? Unless there was another one?

It didn’t matter, he thought as he dumped the herbs into the trash and put the broom and pan away. With light feet, he made his way back to the living room where the other four were waiting for him. He could keep his eye out for, but it shouldn’t be a problem yet. If what Missouri had said was true and the demon hadn’t taken or killed Sam the other night, then they had time to figure it out, surely.

Maybe they could settle down. Become a family, he thought, watching Jaskier teaching Dean some hand clapping game with a giggling Sam in his lap. It was... _frowned_ upon for him and Jaskier to be openly together and might one day get them killed, but perhaps, for now, they could play it as Jaskier just being a good friend and helping Geralt out. Geralt _refused_ to let Jaskier leave his side, not after the last time and fucking that all up. No, he needed Jaskier like he needed water.

Besides, he was getting tired of hunting. Almost a thousand years of it would be draining on anyone, mutations or no.

Besides... A tired Witcher was a slow Witcher was a dead Witcher, after all.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, just loud enough to get his lover’s attention. “How do you feel about going to the coast?”


End file.
